


haunt us till they become a cheering light

by Catherines_Collections



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Depression, Dysphoria, From Under the Cork Tree, Gender Dysphoria, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Genderqueer Character, Growing Up, Insomnia, M/M, Other, Punk Pete Wentz, Touring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 11:00:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14424003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catherines_Collections/pseuds/Catherines_Collections
Summary: Pete’s not a boy.It’s the world that changes. Not them.





	haunt us till they become a cheering light

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from a John Keat's poem. This was a shower thought, it was never supposed to be this long. Timelines? What timelines?  
> Some of the flashbacks use different pronouns & if you read you'll find out why! Shout out, of course, to the lovely @loveinamaltshop who is my #1 source of encouragement, she is amazing. :')
> 
> I own nothing, hope you enjoy!
> 
> (Now with a Russian translation, done by the lovely @erbrou, which can be found here: https://ficbook.net/readfic/7115854 )

 

 

The funny thing about the Chicago music scene is that people don’t care what you look like when you’re on stage as long as you’re screaming out lyrics to a crowd, burning your throat raw with rage, and throwing your body into anything it can reach.

The funny thing about the Chicago music scene, or almost any music scene trying to make it to the top, is that people care about _everything_ about you before you even have a chance to make it on the stage.                                                                                                    

And the trick - that’s not really a trick but still gets them nearly thrown out on their ass after every show like one, or beaten the shit out of when they take a step too close to the wrong person at the wrong time - is that Pete’s not a _boy_.

They’re something that labels like to overlook, and every scene likes to side-step. They’re every expectation formed and none of the assumed roles they’re expected to conform to simultaneously. They're sharp teeth and careful eyes and skin that knows how bruise a little too well.

Pete likes to think they were born with defiance in their blood, for as much as it’s exemplified in their life. They’ve got the bruises and blood stains to prove it.

It’s not a trick, not something deceptive or new, it’s truth.

Pete’s not a boy.  
  
It’s the world that changes. Not them.

Really, Pete thinks, the scene’s just been _begging_ for a change.

.        


They’re at Joe’s and Pete’s counting the ticks of the fan above their heads.                                                                                            

It’s summer and they’re both bored out of their minds on Joe’s couch until Joe starts with, “So, I met this kid…” and goes on to wax poetics about another music geek he met in the music section of Barnes and Noble until Pete finally stops him.

After almost two hours of Joe talking about some kids revolutionary music taste - “It’s hard to find people into good shit, okay?” - Pete trades out the music snob talk with a sigh and asks for a live demonstration.

Joe lights up at the question, eyes wide and grin forming on his face. “Oh, shit, Pete. Of course. He’s gonna fucking flip when he meets you.”

Pete decides to take the words with a positive spin and grins as Joe stumbles up off the couch to look for a phonebook.

.                                                                                                   

Being a music nerd isn’t something Pete intends to become.

It just sort of happens somewhere between the first time they passes a record with Bowie on the cover, dressed in tights with eye makeup that makes his eyes pop that Pete just can’t put down, and the next few weeks Pete spends listening to everything Bowie before falling headfirst into Prince- all glitter, soul, eyeliner, and funk.

The thing is that Pete loves _rock_ , loves music that makes their heart rate pick up so quick it almost slows down, and lyrics that move words around to shape something unbound. Pete loves punk almost as much as they love rock, loves the screaming and blood and punk music scene more than anything, having played in Arma and enough bands in the past to prove it.

They’re committed to punk and rock almost exclusively, but as they flip Bowie’s record over for the sixth time in one day, reminding themself to stop staring at Prince’s eyes on his album cover, they have to admit the beats and riffs stick.

Pete remembers reading something from one of Bowie’s interviews, tucked between pages of the latest copy of _Rolling Stone_ picked up from a record store because when Pete fixates they go _hard_ , about how artist often defy genre.

Pete listens to Bowie, thinks of Prince’s ever changing songs, even swaps in some George Michael and Michael Jackson for lyric and beat alternation, thinks about Bowie’s tights and Prince’s makeup, and decides _yeah_. Genre was _made_ to be fucked with.

The guys in Arma don’t speak music as much as Pete does now, don’t understand the lyrics they try to weave in or some of the riffs they’re experimenting with, but they’ll learn.

Pete will teach them.

Punk is, after all, the _defying_ genre.                                                                           

. 

“You’re kind of a creep,” Patrick says, one of the first lines he says to Pete after their initial meeting. Pete grins, cherry chap-stick lips curving into something blinding, all teeth. Patrick doesn’t flinch. It's telling.

“Nah. I just know potential, kid,” Pete says, winking when Patrick narrows his eyes. “And you’re kinda made of it.”

They ruffle the kid’s hair, laughing when Patrick snarls and shoves them away, stumbling back. He’s short and ill tempered and everything Pete’s been aching to find and shape in the scene.

Joe shakes his head, watches as Patrick throws himself on the couch across the room and crosses his arms. He’s stopped giving Pete wary glances, though, and that’s progress.

“Well,” Joe sighs, “at least we know this band won’t be _boring._ ”

Andy snickers behind his drum kit, the first sound he’s made since he got there, and Patrick jumps, turning to him like he’d forgotten Andy was even there.

 _Definitely not boring,_  Pete thinks, not bothering to muffle their snort at Patrick's death glare.

.                                                                                                  

The realization is an evolution in snapshots. Growth in-between the lines, unspoken and unheard- realizations that don’t make external sounds. It’s Pete finding the right words for the right feelings and putting a name to the process  

Their adolescence is spent in suburbia, bored and lost in his own skin. The world feels off kilter and there’s a bubble around him that doesn’t get popped until the end of the school’s talent show. It’s a complete waste of time and money, except for the end of the night when he leaves early, exiting through the school parking lot with his hood pulled up, bracing himself against the cold Chicago air. Spring time doesn’t mean shit in Chicago.

There’s a circle of people too old to be teens and too young to be parents discussing art Pete’s heard nothing about, but books he’s been reading and annotating for the past three years. He stops and listens on the outskirt, stuttering when someone spots him and invites him over.

A few conversations in and the world feels like it's finally started spinning.

.                                                                                                    

The band start to get a bit easier, like the room’s fallen into a synced sort of rhythm, after Patrick spots Pete’s Bowie record and his eyes light up like the world’s just opened up in front of him and he’s got front row seat.

After listening to Patrick ramble about artistic use of something and revolutionary adaptation of something else, all dreamy eyed and sighing, Pete realizes they can no longer call themselves a true music nerd.

Pete also realizes that dreamy eyed Patrick, after almost an hour and counting, is something they never really want to look away from.

 _Fuck_ , Pete thinks, somewhere between Patrick listing another musical achievement of Bowie’s and another barrier broken down by Prince, _Patrick may have been right about the creep thing._

.                                                                                       

The beginning of teen-hood is, in Pete Wentz terms, the beginning of the rest of their life.

Thirteen is the golden age. The year of the beginning: of art and music, mosh pits and exploring the depths of Chicago too late with people old enough to know better but young enough not to care. Thirteen bleeds into fourteen but it doesn’t matter because “age is a social construct” or some shit, and he feels connected to _something._

Pete’s at fourteen, eyeliner stolen from one of the girls who refers to herself as punk and uses the term androgynous, laughing when Pete asks _what the hell does that mean?_ One of the older guys tells him he’s a mouthy brat, and he sneers when the other guys smirk.

The punk _tsk_ , says, “Actually, it’s _they_ or _them._ Not _she_ , okay?” It’s not malicious, or if it is Pete doesn't take it that way.

Instead, he blinks and nods with a hurried, “Oh, yeah. Okay.”

He wants to ask more but they’re smile lights up their whole face, so Pete takes the opening and doesn’t feel so bad when he follows up with his initial question, “Can I borrow your eyeliner?” It’s an even bigger surprise when they say yes.

The eyeliner is applied like armor. He makes sure to emphasize the rings around his eyes, smudges the sides and gets the pretty effect that leaves him staring into the mirror until his mom knocks on the door.

Pete scrambles to lock it with a quick, _occupied,_ he hopes she can’t read anything into.

He looks in the mirror again and doesn’t stop until one of his siblings bangs on the door with a short, _dinner._

It takes him five minutes to wipe it off, and ten to realize his hands are shaking when he’s passing the peas.

.                                                     

The first time their band plays together, Hurley finally surrendering to the ever present demands and agreeing to drum for them, something _clicks_.

Something snaps into place between Patrick’s voice, Joe’s guitar, and Pete’s bass. Hardly audible, but it’s there. Faint and real and _explosive_.

“Holy fuck,” Pete laughs, after, teeth glinting off the basement lights. “That fucking _sucked_.”

“Gee, thanks,” Patrick says, dryly, stiffening when Pete jumps forward and takes his face in their hands. Patrick’s eyes narrow in when Pete’s smile widens.

“No, Stump, you don’t _understand._  We fucking sucked, and it still sounded okay. That, my friend, is called chemistry. Look it up, high school. We’re gonna fucking _rock_!”

Joe smirks over the head of his guitar when Patrick jerks away, and Andy nods thoughtfully.

“Pete has a point,” Andy adds. “If we sound like that when we suck, I’m curious what we sound like when we’re good.”

“Hear that, Stump?” Pete faux whispers, “Hurley's telling you to practice.”

Really, Pete should have expected the shoe. Joe’s following cackle is practically a given.

.                                                                                   

Pete’s fifteen is chaos and starving for a crowd.

It’s playing in bands, keeping up with politics, spitting on Reagan's and Bush’s names like they burn, and learning the word ‘queer’ through murmurs in the back of an underground art club he’s managed to sneak into for the night. It’s meeting the eyes of the stranger who said it and blushing when they smile at him. It’s wondering why their eyes look like they’re preparing for a fight.

Sixteen is staring at the mirror with the eyeliner he bought himself in one hand, and the other clenched on the bathroom sink. It’s trying on the word _queer_ for the first time and liking how it fits. _Androgyny_ gets tried on too and it’s close, but not the same. _Genderqueer_ is a label he likes the best if he had to chose one.

It’s late nights spent teaching himself how to apply lipstick just right in the mirror, and re-learning about pronouns and their importance in English class. His back straightening when the people around him who whisper about a girl who goes by _‘they/them’ for some reason._

Pete tries that one on too, slips the pronouns on like another coat of lipstick. Their body feels electric, and for the first time, they think they might belong in it. It’s simultaneously the best and worst feeling they’ve ever had.

.                                                                                      

There are a lot of things Pete loves about _Fall Out Boy_ : the music, Patrick, the scene, Andy, the ways fans have started screaming _their_ name, Joe, people actually buying their merchandise and wearing it. All of it seems incredibly surreal.

Mostly, Pete loves the way _Fall Out Boy_ seems to get them in the way no one else in the scene could.

They loves the way no one questions or curses them when Pete shows up wearing a skirt or makeup to practice. That no one looks at them in disgust when they wear heels or lipstick on stage to perform, loves the glares those cursing them in the audience get from the band. _Fall Out Boy_ gets them, understands and embraces Pete, in the same way everyone else in the scene tried to erase them.

 _Fall Out Boy’s_ fifth ‘official’ practice in, Joe asks Andy something about stage setups and positions. Andy shrugs and nods to Pete with, “I don’t know, you should ask them.”

Pete’s heart skips three times in their chests, and they half-heatedly answer Joe’s question. Joe just nods and smiles like he gets it. Pete doesn't think he does.

Afterwards, everyone seems to catch on. They start referring to Pete with  _them_ or _they_ with no questioning, no prompting or intrusion or mocking.

In introductions, they all make sure to address Pete and their pronouns, equal parts charming and sinister- daring some asshole scenes to say _anything_.

“Thanks,” Pete tells them, a few nights later, when the noise inside their head has finally quieted enough for the words to come trough. They’re all post-show high and running on adrenaline and bad beer.

Pete doesn’t clarify, but Patrick and Joe smile like they know, and Andy nods. Pete adds, “Just, thanks, guys. So much.”

“Of course, dude,” Joe slurs, smiling wide, and triggering a thirty minute debate on the gender-neutral form of the word _dude_ and it’s patriarchal roots.

Pete’s smiling so wide through the whole thing, cackling when Andy shouts something about the _history of sexism through language._

Patrick’s sitting quietly on the corner of the couch, leaning back to meet Pete’s eyes.

“You don’t have to thank us for what we should already be doing,” Patrick says, baby blues swimming with certainty.

“You’re you, Pete. And it’s not an optional thing for us to embrace that.”

Pete’s not sure if they’re still going to have a heart by the end of this night if these boys keep stopping it. They smile softly, brush some of Patrick’s hair out of his eyes, biting their lip when Patrick blushes.

“I know,” Pete says, warm from the inside out, honey flooding their chest when Patrick offers a kind smile.

They don’t want to offer up previous experiences in the scene for proof, how other bands who kicked them out for less, places they know they can never go if they want to stay safe, and show how common decency isn’t so common anymore.

So they say, “But I still mean it,” instead, and play with Patrick’s hair until Andy and Joe finally tire themselves out.

.                                                                                             

Seventeen is having a harder time looking in the mirror, afraid of what they’ll find. It’s body not matching up with mind, everything feeling wrong and empty, like Pete’s got a hole of filth buried  inside of them and it’s swallowing them up with every side glance of flat chest or slight bulge.

Seventeen is exploring the library after school and exhausting news sources on lgbtq+ information and research. It’s hiding behind cubicles and making sure no one sees; it’s making sure anything from sixteen stays quiet and to themself.

Seventeen is seeing little to no news coverage on the lgbtq community and what there is is terrifying: hate crime, death, murder, death, suicide, and more death. It’s _fucked up fucked up fucked up_ and their head is pounding with it, their heart a heavy weight in their chest snarling _unfair._

.                                                                                                

 _Fall Out Boy_ spends two years playing underground bars, parties, and really any gig they can get. They go on a few short tours up and down the West Coast, and try to break further into the Chicago music scene. It feels like flying, and Pete catalogs it all by cranky forced road stops and cheap plastic souvenirs.

The band gets better, and Patrick proves Pete’s point of _golden ticket_ with every show.

Pete quits Arma for good, and doesn’t look back. Doesn’t respond to the curses or threats being flung behind them, and flips them the bird over their shoulder for good measure. They smile the whole trip home  

A few months later, _Fall Out Boy_ get a recording contract. A few months after Pete’s words meet Patrick’s music and their demo is released, Pete gets told to start ‘downplaying’ the whole _‘girly shit’_ when corporate decides they like _Fall Out Boy_ enough to keep.

Time seems to freeze on the ride back from L.A to Chicago.

.

                                                                   
Pete at eighteen is bruises from fights where they tried to _prove. It’s_ mental arguments switching between _they_ and _he_ like an everlasting battle, hating every time _he_ wins over. They don’t take their shirt off unless they have to, and avoid any mirrors.

There’s enough of their blood splayed on bathroom mirrors across Chicago to fuel a new person. Pete doesn’t think about how they wish something new would come up from it and make here better.

Eighteen is all heavy hearts and fucked up brains and learning that _queer_ isn’t said for what it really means. It’s a curse thrown around after shows, to a crowd that shouts _homo_ like it’s a disease. It’s a slur, even in the punk community - the group established to tear down tyranny and builds its own instead - and the feelings get buried somewhere between the mental diagnosis and punk shows, and falling head first into the hardcore scene.  
  
Mania and depression seem to cover the tracks for a while.

.

                                                                                                       
Patrick’s raging in the bus, furious and snarling, and Pete’s just cold. It’s not like they didn’t expect it, it’s that they never thought they’d ever make it far enough for it to matter. But apparently it does. Because there are lines even those in the hardcore scene can’t cross.

Punk is _defying_ by definition, but still there seems to always be a line to keep them out. Pete knew about how the stage works before you even get on it. It’s such bullshit, Pete wants to laugh. They keep silent, and Patrick voices it for them.

“Such fucking _bullshit_ ,” Patrick snarls while Joe and Andy nod, matching looks of disgust and fury on their faces. “Who the fuck do they think they are?”

“Our producers,” Pete cuts in, all eyes turning to them where they’re curled up on themselves in the back. Their head balancing on top of their knees. “The same people who gave us the contract, which we are not going to ruin.”

“Fuck that,” Patrick says, frowning all righteous fury, and Pete wants to sneer at how much Patrick just _doesn’t get it._ How rare these chances are, and how something like this is bound to happen with any contract so long as Pete’s attached. “Pete, they can’t treat you like that. That’s fucked.”

Pete looks away and doesn’t say anything back. After a few minutes, Patrick crawls into the back seat with them, glancing back over his shoulder to find Andy and Joe talking to each other in hushed voices. When Patrick looks back at Pete, his face is twisted up in kind confusion.

“Pete,” Patrick says, lost. He puts a hand on the seat, interrupting the space between them as it brushes against Pete’s. “You-,”

Pete cuts him off with a snort, jerking back. “Fuck it, whatever. We got a deal. We all have to make compromises and shit. I knew this was never going to be easy.”

They shrug, angling their body away from Patrick’s touch, turning to face out the van window.

“Maybe,” Patrick adds after a few moments, quiet. “But that doesn’t mean it’s okay for it to be hard.”

Pete gives a choked off laugh and shakes their head, a sickly sweet smile forming that makes Patrick bite his lip when he sees it in the window reflection.

“I guess not. Don’t think it fucking matters, though.”

There’s a beat of silence before Patrick’s voice sounds again. “I’m so sorry, Pete.”

They shake their head again, wondering if the movement will dislodge anything helpful. It doesn’t. “Don’t be,” Pete says, short and quiet. “This isn’t about you.”

The rest of the ride is silence and road, Chicago fading past into the night. Patrick a constant warmth next to them. Pete closes their eyes, and sinks. Wonders what it would be like if they never opened them again.

.                                                                                      

Pete’s twenty is _Arma_ and screaming into microphones about medications and tyranny and pain, feeling twisted up on the inside but unsure why. Twenty is falling in before realizing it’s too late to get out, and wanting to puke every time they hear another slur. Eventually, they stop keeping count, and start redirecting anger at the speakers.

Twenty is bloody knuckles that never had a chance to scab over since eighteen, and wearing eyeliner to shows. They start to wear it out, too. Not just for midnight club visits or performances, and Pete pretends not to notice the side glances the guys in _Arma_ give them. When the slurs start getting directed towards them, Pete’s all teeth and bloody knuckles shining in the light.

None of them matter and Pete just needs a band.

That’s one of the reasons, really, that twenty-two is _everything_.                                                                                    

.

Pete doesn’t make it easy. They’ve _never_ made it easy.

They play their fucking bass, show up at all the right places, smile at all the right people: follow the contract right up to the dotted line.

The shocked expressions Pete receives, however, when people see their makeup, tight jeans, and lipstick before and after the show is quickly becoming one of Pete’s favorite things.                                                                 

. 

Twenty-two is memories from not too long ago- saving grace in the form of _Fall Out Boy._

It’s meeting a blue eyed furious ball of talent named Patrick Stump who blushes when Pete laughs at his outfit, and follows him and Joe down to Patrick’s basement where Patrick plays drums for them. Pete knowing something golden has landed in their lap when they hear him.

It’s asking, “Do you sing?” when Patrick’s finished, and finally hearing him try it with a sigh after a short stuttered protest.

Patrick stiffens when Pete pulls him in, but Pete just smiles down at him, says, “You’re our golden ticket, high school.” Joe laughing and whooping in the background when Patrick gives a hesitant smile back.

Twenty-two is late night jam sessions, blue eyes staining dreams, and no one blinking an eye when Pete wears eyeliner or dabs a bit of lip gloss on their lips.

It’s all kind of perfect.

.                                                                                 

The next year is interviews, shows, and _tour buses._

Everyone stares at their new buses in stunned silence after the drivers have walked off for a break.

“Wow,” Andy starts first, almost reverent. No one even even mocks him for it.

“Triple that,” Joe says back, all of them watching as Pete takes a few steps and places a hand on the cool exterior of the bus. None of it feels real, but in the best of ways for once.

“This,” Patrick says, from behind them but Pete can still hear the smile, “is going to fucking _rule_.”                                                                         

.

Patrick, as always, is right.

.

A Pete Wentz breakdown, of course, is inevitable. It’s not full scale, and later they’ll be extremely thankful for avoiding the jump from anxious to depressed to severely manic and the phone call to their manager that would warrant.

It’s not a big deal, is the thing. It’s just that Pete hates the publicity things the band’s having to do, and sometimes the world will get to be too much all at once. Pete doesn’t have a good way of dealing with that.

Later, they will realize it was a disaster building, unavoidable in the way that most build-ups are. But for now, Pete’s falling- stumbling and tripping back and forth inside their own head trying to find some sort of grasp, slipping on every turn.

It’s just a combination of mistakes and accidents colliding in front of them all at once that make the world feel like it’s imploding. Pete forgot to take their pills this morning, which wouldn’t be too big of a  problem if they had been able to sleep any this past week.

But insomnia is an unrelenting lover, the interviews and promotion activities are constant since signing their new deal, and Pete feels backed into a corner, with the smallest bits of self chipped away with each question, each confused glance from strangers in _their_ studio.

Tour starts in a week. Pete tries to take a breath.

This is where Patrick finds them huddled in the corner of the bathroom, lights turned off, shaking relentlessly, and breathing too fast.

“Pete,” Patrick whispers, crouching down and placing a hand gently on Pete’s back. Careful like he’s afraid Pete’s about to break. Pete shakes with it and buries their head further in their knees, resisting when Patrick murmurs kind reassurances and tries to loosen the tightness of Pete’s position before they strain something.

Patrick’s muttering a chorus of hushed _fuck_ s under his breath, and any other time Pete would find it funny. Right now they can’t seem to find anything.

“Pete, hey,” Patrick’s voice starts, louder now. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Patrick fades off, but Pete knows by now what follows, _I’m here and this is safe._

Patrick’s rubbing circles in their back, and slowly Pete feels themself relaxing. Joints unlock and their body can move again, but they stay hunched over- not wanting to lose Patrick’s touch just yet.

They stay like that until Joe and Andy come looking for them.

When they get back on the bus, Patrick watches Pete swallow all their pills- dry.                                                                               

. 

The first few night in the tour bus, after the studio incident and finally starting on the fast track of the rest of their lives, Pete can’t sleep.

It only takes four pokes at Patrick’s bunk above them before Patrick’s sighing, swinging over to the side to look down at Pete. He’s met with puppy eyes and pouting lips and looks nothing close to amused.

“What?” Patrick says, the words a grumble getting lost in the grind of the buses’ gears as they roll down the highway. The world feels like it’s determined to keep them awake, and Pete grinds their teeth trying to tune it out.

Patrick’s face softens into realization.

“Okay,” he starts, yawning half-way through, and Pete can’t look away. The world is gears and teeth and Patrick. “You can sleep up here, if you want.”

The last part is a formality neither of them need anymore as Pete crawls up into Patrick bunk, and is reminded of all the nights they crawled into his lap to sleep in the van.

They curl up in blankets and pillows and Patrick, sighing when he throws an arm over their waist.

“Sing me something,” Pete murmurs, half-asleep with the knowledge of being curled up into _Patrick_. “Please.”

Patrick barely gets through the second verse before Pete’s asleep.                                                                          

.

Tour is more autographs, kids wearing their merchandise like it means something, and signs and flags in the crowd.

The first time Pete sees lavender and green flying in the crowd, it feels like the world’s going to fucking explode in the best of ways.

Afterwards, Pete will call it the best show they’ve ever played, adrenaline running under their skin and igniting something in their blood, and no one corrects them.

Patrick spares them a small smile and the world feels like magic.                                                                                                

.

An annoying side effect of being on the road is a constant lack of things. There isn’t a lot of space to store stuff, so things that aren’t strictly ‘necessary’ tend to get left behind.

Too many times Pete resorts to scribbling lyrics down on anything they can reach. Which happens when they’re off the road too, but it’s fun to bitch about when they’re bored. Pete gets used to carrying a pen around and the feeling of ink against skin.

Joe glances at Pete’s wrist, one of the many times they couldn’t find any paper in time, and raises an eyebrow at the words.

“Interesting,” Joe nods, “Keep up the good work and all that shit.” Pete grins at him.

Patrick squawks from across the bus, indignant, “You can _read_ that?”

Joe scoffs and Andy laughs so hard he falls off the couch.

Pete watches Joe and Patrick bicker about Pete’s terrible - “Nearly illegible,” Patrick grouches - handwriting, with a smirk.

Pete doesn’t have the heart to tell any of them the words are actually just a list of reminders for their next stop, not lyrics.

Joe throws out the line “Poetic genius!” at some point, which only succeeds in turning Patrick a further shade of pink that makes Pete cover their mouth to keep from snorting.

.                                                                                             

The next stop gets them all day stay at interview station.

They’re all in dressing rooms waiting on another radio interview. Andy and Joe are sharing one room and Pete and Patrick get the other: tour bus rules. It’s just how it works, even if there’s no actual dressing.  
  
“They called me beautiful today,” Pete starts, finishing the touches on their lipstick, keeping an eye on Patrick behind them in the mirror. Management finally realized that a band full of kids born and raised in Chicago won’t take orders from LA wannabe hotshots, and have given up on the idea of Pete cutting out the _‘girly shit’_.

There are pictures of Pete everywhere, from the shows and even some from the earlier days in the Chicago scene, and there’s no use trying to cover up what Pete’s made sure has already been seen. They’re getting marketed as the next Bowie, now. A _punk_ Prince and being treated like their identity is a part of the _show_.

The producers stamp Pete with the label of ‘ _stage gay’_ , and decide to ‘embrace’ them. The fact that most of their fans and backing stem from areas of the lgbtq+ community doesn’t exactly hurt profit sales, either. Fucking pigs.

Pete doesn’t specify which interview because out of the twenty they’ve done this week it’s anybody’s guess. They’re attempting nonchalance and missing it by a mile if Patrick’s stare is anything to go by.

Patrick blinks.  
  
“You’re always beautiful,” Patrick says, staring up at them from where he’s sitting on the ground, eyebrows crutches in confusion. He says the words slow and sure like he’s stating a fact. The grass is green; Pete’s always pretty. No, wait, _beautiful_. Patrick said beautiful. It sounds different coming from Patrick’s mouth and Pete’s heart jumps twice the rate it did when they read it in the magazine.  
  
Pete smiles, lets it stretch across their face so they can feel how their lipstick catches on the ends, and turns away from the mirror. Patrick’s still all scrunched eyebrows and adorable confusion and Pete wants so much it aches.  
  
“Yeah,” Pete says, lets the full affect drip over them. “Thanks.”

Patrick smiles, slow and sweet, and Pete grins back. Prays it’s not as shaky as it feels.

.                                                                                                        

Chicago morphs into LA, morphs into more sleepless nights and less lyrics than there need to be.

Eventually, between the mess of everything, Pete stops asking if they can spend the night in Patrick’s bed, and it just becomes an assumed thing. Pete can’t sleep without Patrick anyway, but that’s probably not something Patrick needs to know.

.                                                                                                  

What Pete learns early on is this:

Pete _loves_ who they are.

Most of the world does not.

.                                                                                        

Towards the middle of the tour when it's easy to slip in and out unnoticed, Patrick boards the bus with red knuckles and a bloody mouth. He isn’t stumbling, but he looks exhausted, the post-fight adrenaline already melting from his features.

Pete glances up out when they hear the door, pen caught between teeth and ink spreading over paper and skin, only to be greeted by a bloody Patrick who smiles, tired. Pete jumps out of their bunk so fast the lyrics on their arms smear on the sheets. Pete crosses the bus in three steps.

They take Patrick’s face in their hands and run a finger gently over his bottom lip, hands pulling back when Patrick hisses. Only, Patrick grasps their arm, holding their hands still on his face, pulling on Pete like an anchor. Pete gives.

“How did this happen?” Pete whispers, thumb brushing along the forming bruise on Patrick’s right cheekbone, already knowing the answer and praying they’re wrong. It doesn’t take much for Patrick to get into a fight. It takes certain triggers for him to come back to the bus bloody, though. Patrick should know better than to let Pete be one of those triggers.

Patrick shrugs carefully, wincing slightly before leaning into Pete’s hand. Pete’s breath hitches. Patrick doesn’t seem to catch it. He’s all blood and boy and a cocky grin that doesn’t meet his eyes when he finally looks at Pete.

“Some guys, after the show. It was nothing.”

The cuts and bruises on Patrick’s knuckles say differently, but Pete purses their lips and stays quiet for once, reaching for a tissue and starts dabbing at the cut on Patrick’s forehead. Not deep enough for stitches, but enough to hurt. Pete takes a breath.

“You can’t keep doing this, you know,” Pete murmurs, pressing onto Patrick’s forehead harder when he hisses. Patrick closes his eyes and Pete waits, eyebrow raised when Patrick opens them again.

“And you know,” Patrick starts, careful, always so careful. “That it’s not very _punk rock_  to be a bigoted asshole.”

“Yeah, well,” Pete mumbles, pulling away to throw the tissue away, not meeting Patrick’s eyes. “Neither is fighting nameless nobodies outside your own concert venue.”

“Actually, that’s the definition of punk rock, I think. You should know, you were in the scene.”

Something twists in Pete’s stomach. They don’t turn when they say, “Yeah, well. There’s a reason I’m not anymore.”

The bus is silent as Pete grabs another tissue and starts to dab at the ink on their arm: trying to salvage what’s left of their lyrics. They only succeed in smudging the words, but Pete can’t bring themself to care.

“Hey,” Patrick says, softly, and Pete turns around to find him smiling, shy and flushed. Pete can feel their heart melting and slipping down the drain. “It’s fine. I mean, you should see the other guy.”  
  
Pete throws the smudges tissue away and hums gently as they walk back over, pulling Patrick into the top bunk with them. It’s crowded in a comforting way, and they sigh into Patrick’s shoulder. “Nah, I think I’m good here.”

At some point, Pete falls asleep wrapped in Patrick, humming and stroking Pete’s hair. When sleep finally comes, Pete doesn’t think about blood mixing with ink on already ruined sheets, or being the reason for Patrick’s countless bruises.                                                                                                    

.

The shows and stolen moments in the buses, the ones that make Pete wonder about the untouched thing between them evolving into more, are the only things that make it all bearable.

When they’re locked away in their own space, coasting down the highway during the night, Patrick a consuming presents with his voice and touch and general existence, the world becomes a gentle place.

.                                                                                              

Interviews seem to be something that once they start they never stop. It’s everyone’s least favorite thing about their new ‘rise to fame’. They’re boring and dreadful and usually end with someone blowing up in the personal question section.

Pete doesn’t call interviewers out anymore when they address them with _he_ or, even on the rare occasions where Pete knows they’re at least trying, the occasional _she_. Most of the time it’s on accident, but sometimes there’s a sneer that shapes the words like a direct blow.

And it hurts, definitely, but it mostly has Pete laughing their ass off mentally because, wow. This is _nothing_ compared to Chicago. It still fucking sucks, but it’s not like they’re getting beat up for wearing lip gloss, or being thrown out of a venue with a kick and slur.

Hollywood is a whole new world of discrimination, and Pete’s still learning how to navigate it. You can’t throw punches out here like in Chicago, Patrick’s learned that one the hard way after another lecture from their tour manager and threats from the higher ups.

Pete glances over and sees fading bruises on poorly bandaged knuckles, and frowns. Patrick doesn’t look over, and Pete decides it’s probably a good time to tune back into the interview.

They watch the interviewers stutter over, around, and dig a hole right below _they_ in desperate acts to avoid addressing anything outside of the studio approved questions.

It sucks, mostly, but now it’s almost funny the way the interviewers will stutter as Andy raises an eyebrow and Joe scoffs every time they misgender Pete. Right now, Pete’s counted thirteen times, and thinks they’re going to have to put that in a song somewhere.

It’s even funnier when Patrick hits the end of his fuse, snapping with, “Jesus fucking Christ, I don’t think it would kill you to use _they_ at least fucking _once_.”

Pete doesn’t even try to bite back their grin.

One of the reasons Pete stopped correcting is because Patrick started, and oh that is so much more fun to watch: the way Patrick's face flushes and his teeth drag over his bottom lip like he’s forgotten how to use his mouth correctly amidst all the anger.

Pete watches Patrick clench his teeth, trying to calm himself and suppress that building teenage rage he’s never been able to control, and the interviewer flushes bright red.

“Sorry, I-,” She splutters, takes a breath and starts again. She tries on a smile when she addresses them, carefully looking away from Patrick.

“So,” She starts, glancing down at her cue card once as the camera light turns on, making Pete wonder when they stopped filming. “Your newest album has been praised by fans all over the country. Comments have been made about the lyrical aspects, specifically, and the gradual genre shifts. Care to give fans a sneak preview into your process?”

Pete smiles, can’t resist, and says, “We’ll sure try,” at the same time Joe starts with, “Well, I think-”

The interviewer and Pete both turn to him, and Joe flushes lightly. Pete feels Patrick’s hand casually brush against theirs. Feels their heart pounding in their chest, and decides to let Joe have this one with a nod.

Joe starts, careful, “I think there are a lot of people out there who need things like this. Something that kind of surpasses labels, if that makes sense. There are a lot of people who get too caught up in the scene, and forget about the music, and we don’t want to be those people. We want to explore things that have been tampered with, but not fully captured.”

The interviewer’s false smile fades into something awed and she nods, leaning in closer. Patrick coughs into his hand and Andy slaps him on the back. A slow grin makes its way onto Pete’s face as Joe finishes, his tone light and a stark difference from the growing heaviness on the topic before.

“Really, we’re all really happy people seem to be liking what we’ve created.”

They get a few more questions, a mixture of tour date schedules and _who’s dating who_ games, and then they’re finishing up with a nod and a stuttered out _thank you_ from the interviewer, before she flees the scene.

“Holy shit, Trohman,” Patrick mutters as they head out of the building. “Who knew you were the Pete Wentz of interviews.”

Pete’s smiling so hard they can feel the ache in their face. “Aw, Patty! I’m flattered, truly. But, Joe. Holy shit, dude. What _was_ that?”

Joe shrugs, sheepish, and doesn’t meet their eyes. Patrick raises an eyebrow.

“It’s just something I felt needed to be said, you know?”

Pete opens their mouth, closes it, and settles on throwing themself at Joe, laughing when he yelps, arms extended out to catch them. Andy shakes his head, but he’s grinning.

“Better watch yourself, Patrick. I think you’re being replaced.”

Patrick rolls his eyes and Pete leans up to send him a wink over Joe’s shoulder.

“Impossible,” Pete adds, for good measure. Patrick’s slow smile as he bumps Andy’s shoulder makes it worth it.

.                                                                               

Patrick hums in his sleep, tiny little notes that ease Pete into the night and make the sky beautiful from the fogged bus window.

The tour’s coming to an end. All of the shows blend together into one, all the interviews and prep work leaving their mind as soon as they enter.

Patrick lets out a breath by their ear, and Pete feels the moment roll over their skin until it’s all they are. Pete becomes Patrick’s sleeping breaths and an endless night sky. The bus shifts to the right slightly, moving Patrick further into Pete’s side, and for a fracture of a second they are aware that this will be one of the moments they’ll always remember about the tour.

Lyrics are rolling around in Pete’s head, words stringing themselves together with each shadow from the moon and weaving between every breath of Patrick’s. They make a few notes with the pen tucked under their pillow, smudge ink onto skin, half tempted to write something on Patrick’s, but decide against it for now.

Pete doesn’t notice when they’re eyes finally slip shut.                                                                                      

. 

Tour is a whirlwind but when it’s finally ending it all feels like it’s gone by too fast.

“Last concert,” Joe starts, solemnly. His head tilted toward the stage where they can already hear the crowd calling for them.

“Last concert,” Pete repeats, coming behind Patrick to wrap their arms around his waist and lean their head on his right shoulder. Patrick huffs.  Pete can practically feel him rolling his eyes.

“Alright,” Andy says, nodding with a grin, and Pete reads it as _hope._ “Better make it fucking count then.”

The night flies by in snapshots.

In the crowd cheering while the strings cut into Pete’s fingertips leaving behind a trail of memories and whispered promises. In Patrick’s voice carrying over even after Pete leans their forehead against his back, eyes closed and fingers still moving. In Joe screaming with the crowd as he hits the chord at the same moment Andy strikes his kit.

It’s the rapture and the downfall and everything colliding all at once. The crowd cheers as they finish, and it’s like they’re everything they’ve ever been and more when they finally exit.

“That,” Patrick says, starry eyed and shining just how Pete loves him, when they’ve settled back into the bus after the meet and greet. Pete follows Patrick into his bunk, “was- Wow.”

“Yeah,” Pete echoes back, taking Patrick’s hand into theirs and running a thumb absentmindedly over his fingers.He’s too dazed to notice or know better, and Pete grins.

“W _ow_ ,” they say, enunciating the last  _w._

Patrick slaps their arm gently, but he’s laughing, little post-high giggles that make Pete’s heart seize up before they have a chance to be mad at him.

“I like this,” Patrick says, when the giggles have finally tampered off and they can both feel the bus moving.

Patrick doesn’t specify, just runs his fingers over Pete’s, looking up from under his eyelashes, lips stretched into a sweet smile.

“I like it too,” Pete whispers back, something about the air making anything above a whisper seem irreverent. “I like it a lot.”

Patrick gives them a dopey grin and Pete realized they want to kiss him as much as they need to breathe. So, they do.

Patrick taste like dreams and cherry soda, adrenaline highs and late nights, his lips careful and chasing under Pete’s. Pete wants to stay here forever. Their hands make their way to Patrick’s waist, grasping hard enough to leave a mark, muscles seizing up when he lets out a noise.

When they finally pull away, Patrick’s lips are red and swollen, eyes taking a few moments longer to open, like he’s pulling himself awake and coming up from a dream. He looks like a masterpiece. His smile is soft and sleepy and Pete wants to write a thousand songs about how it makes everything _right._

“Okay,” Patrick murmurs, pulling Pete in again, sighing across their lips and sending shivers down Pete’s spine. “I really like it too.”

Pete laughs against his lips and cups his face to pull him closer.

.                                                                                              

When they get back to Chicago the world still feels full. It’s unusual but definitely not unwelcome.

The tour’s ended, but it feels like everything else has only started. There are kids who come up to them in stores, begging and blushing for autographs and pictures. Kids who walk up to Pete with green and pink flag shirts and tears in their eyes. It’s kind of mind blowing.

When they’re all sitting in Pete’s apartment after another ambush signing, there’s a moment of silence between Television and commercial which Joe fills with, “ _Woah_.”

Pete starts to laugh, head in Patrick’s lap and bouncing with his knee.

Andy nods, the show coming back on before he can voice anything, but they all get it: the feeling of finally _making it_ settling in their bones.

“We did it,” Pete mumbles into Patrick’s thigh, head turned down so they can bury themselves in him. “Mr. golden ticket finally made us.”

“Fuck off,” Patrick mumbles, too low for the others to hear, running a hand through their hair, and Pete grins in his lap, teeth snagging against his inner thighs.

When Patrick pulls on Pete’s hair a little too hard, their shriek is followed by Joe’s laughter.

“Sorry,” Patrick says with a shrug, not sounding very sorry at all. Pete glares at him until he finally meets their eyes, sighing and brushing some of Pete’s hair out of their face.

“You're the one who made us, Pete,” he says, still too quiet for the others to hear over the Television, but gentle. He curls a lock around his finger, and Pete leans into the touch when Patrick smiles. “Don’t forget that.”

When they reach up to squeeze Patrick’s hand, he’s blushing with a fond smile.

Pete thinks, between Joe and Andy with the television and lying in Patrick’s lap, _this is what home feels like,_ the taste electric on their tongue.

They curl up further into Patrick’s lap and let the world fade around them. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and Kudos are much appreciated! I'm rhymesofblau on tumblr.


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